


Echoes, Silence, Patience and Grace

by brittyelaine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Episode: s13e01 Lost and Found, Grieving Dean, Grieving Sam Winchester, M/M, Supportive Sam, episode coda, s13e01 coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 16:16:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12391653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittyelaine/pseuds/brittyelaine
Summary: Sam’s hand settles on his shoulder, and he doesn’t flinch.  It anchors him.  It keeps him from drowning.   Nothing can ever change the way he feels about Cas.  Nothing can ever dissever the profound bond he and Cas shared.  But he hopes Sam is right.  He hopes one day it hurts less.  He hopes one day the pain of what if lessens.  He hopes that one day it’s easier to breathe, and that every time he closes his eyes, he doesn’t see the life fading from those blue eyes.  Most of all, he hopes.  Sam gives him hope – something that since that night, he hasn’t felt.  And for that, he’s grateful.





	Echoes, Silence, Patience and Grace

**Author's Note:**

> Based on one of my favorite literary works of all time -- a poem that holds a very dear place in my heart -- _Annabel Lee_
> 
> But our love it was stronger by far than the love  
> Of those who were older than we–  
> Of many far wiser than we–  
> And neither the angels in heaven above,  
> Nor the demons down under the sea,  
> Can ever dissever my soul from the soul  
> Of the beautiful Annabel Lee
> 
>  
> 
> Come hang out with me on [Tumblr!](http://brittywritesstuff.tumblr.com)

The knock is quiet, almost inaudible. But it’s there. Dean closes his eyes and takes a breath. Then another. The door opens after a moment – his lack of response serves as an invitation. He can’t look up; he can’t see the look on Sam’s face. The one that’s so caring and gentle. The one Sam uses with victims and witnesses to show he cares. 

“Hey, Dean,” Sam says quietly. Despite himself, Dean looks up. Sam’s offering a warm half-smile, and Dean can see the sadness in his eyes. Sam’s concern is always Dean, but in Cas’s death, Sam lost someone close, too. He lost a friend.

“Hey, Sammy.” Dean’s voice is rough from disuse. He’s holed up in his room as often as possible, and said as little as possible since they arrived home. He’s left Sam to deal with Jack. Dean can’t handle the questions of _What was my father like? Castiel… what was he like?_ It just hurts too goddamn much.

Sam sits on the edge of the bed, and the mattress groans under the weight. He hands over a beer, and Dean takes it, grateful for the coolness of the bottle. He drinks the neck in one swig and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, listening to the ancient pipes moan and churn and the air system kick on with a _clunk._ “How are you?” Sam asks finally, taking a sip of his beer.

Dean bends his knee and drapes an arm around it, the bottle neck hanging loosely from his fingers. He stares at the wall, focusing on a crack in the cement. It feels fitting – he feels like his soul has been cracked, if not shattered. “Just peachy,” he says. It’s a default response, his sarcasm. And Sam knows better. He knows Sam knows better.

“Dean,” Sam says, his lips forming a tight line. He tilts his head, and Dean closes his eyes.

He’s tired. Dean’s just… exhausted. It’s too much work to hold up the mask. It’s too much work to keep up the facade. “I’m tired, Sammy.” He exhales slowly. “I’ve lost a lot in my life. We both have. Mom. Dad. Jess. Bobby. Charlie. Eileen… But Cas…” He swallows hard, the muscle in his jaw twitching. His eyes are cast downward, eyeing the bottle in his hand like it’s too hard to meet Sam’s steadfast gaze. “I can’t… I don’t know how. I don’t know, Sammy, I just don’t…”

When Sam speaks, offering a simple question, his tone is gentle. There’s no air of accusation. It’s as if he already knows the answer. “Did you love him?”

Dean lifts his eyes, meeting his brother’s. He nods, slowly. “I do,” he says. There’s no past tense about it. There’s no pretense. There’s no reason to lie anymore – to himself, to Sam, to anyone. He breathes out, like a weight has been lifted from his chest. “And I will long after I’m dead.” As a tear slips down his cheek, he scrubs a hand over his face. “I was a coward, Sammy. A goddamn coward. I never…” He shakes his head and looks away for a moment. “Always thought ‘maybe later,’ or ‘maybe next time.’ I was too much of a fucking coward to just tell him. And now–” he chokes on a sob and licks his lips as he looks down to calm himself. 

He hears Sam take a breath. “It gets easier,” he says quietly, “losing the person you love. Little by little, it’ll be easier to breathe. That pain in your heart… the ache… the feeling that something’s missing… that’ll always be there. Some days will hurt worse than others, and there won’t be a day you won’t think of him. But it’ll be easier.”

Tears flood Dean’s eyes, and he doesn’t try to stop them. It’s no use. Sam’s hand settles on his shoulder, and he doesn’t flinch. It anchors him. It keeps him from drowning. Nothing can ever change the way he feels about Cas. Nothing can ever dissever the profound bond he and Cas shared. But he hopes Sam is right. He hopes one day it hurts less. He hopes one day the pain of what if lessens. He hopes that one day it’s easier to breathe, and that every time he closes his eyes, he doesn’t see the life fading from those blue eyes. Most of all, he hopes. Sam gives him hope – something that since that night, he hasn’t felt. And for that, he’s grateful.


End file.
